


Eventide

by Hyacinthos4



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-11
Updated: 2018-10-11
Packaged: 2019-07-29 10:15:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16262120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hyacinthos4/pseuds/Hyacinthos4
Summary: As high elven society quickly changes around him, a young botanist learns he must too change as he matures, but the lines between good and bad are blurred.





	Eventide

Tenemire Eventide was late. For most things, but specifically today he was late for the compulsory weekly meeting with his professor and peers. He was not late last week because he did not go. He was not a poor student, though in his mind he often saw himself as one. He had been up late the previous evening studying, working, on his necessary material, as well as on the things he had put upon himself. His mind hungered for more than what he was usually given, either because it was not enough, or because he deemed it unimportant or uninteresting. This mild arrogance came at a cost however. Though his devotion and brilliance had already gained him respect in his field at a relatively young age, when not at his desk late at night, he struggled along by with the rest at daily life. Such an insurmountable responsibility was to rise from bed at a decent hour, whether it be after four or fourteen hours sleep, his willpower, mighty for greater things, often failed the simple act of raising his head from his pillow. So as he turned in bed and entertained the temptation to stay there, the almost visceral reward of being able to shut back out the world for a few hours more, he knew certain consequences would await him if he did. Today, even his exhausted mind knew that what he was trying to hide from would only multiply in those hours. The previous night, he anticipated this morning’s ritual, the slow climb out of the twisting depths of sleep, the mental vacillation between a compelling optimism and the insidious draw back, an almost narcissistic belief that whatever lay outside could not be as interesting as what lay within the tottering consciousness of his mind. In an attempt to sway the conflict in favour of waking, he left the curtains of his single room dwelling open. The bright sun, perhaps representing the workings of a day already begun, stirred a mild anxiety in him, he who preferred to accomplish his academic achievements and contributions slow and methodically, by the dim light of a candle, and to nobody else’s clock.  
The decision had been made; he opened his eyes wide, flung the sheets off himself and hopped out of bed, briefly losing balance, his body still recovering from sleep. He took as many shortcuts as could be afforded to save time. He splashed some extract of peacebloom on his face and ran his fingers through his long and wavy hair to smooth out the curls. Throwing on the same robe he’d worn the previous day, and the day before, and usual boots, he plucked a few leaves of peacebloom from his small outdoor garden to chew on the way, freshening his mouth. Lucky for him, his home was not far from the academy. He ran the usual path, exacerbating his already exhausted body, unused to much exercise. What he lacked in physical exertion, he made up for by eating very little and mostly things he had grown himself, with the occasional sweet cakes he could not help himself from. Soon the spires of Falthrien Academy rose beyond the hills. He walked as quickly as he could up the spiralling paths and finally joined the cohort. Freywinn was preoccupied, Nathera and Tyniarrel were casually conversing. Nathera greeted Tenemire with a warm smile, Tyniarrel smirked.  
“My apologies, high botanist, I lost track of time, I thought it was earlier than it was…” his voice trailed off into an unsure silence.  
“It is of no consequence,” said Freywinn, putting down his quill, still not looking up. “I will make this quick; I’ve more important things to attend to.” Nathera and Tenemire exchanged glances. “There is little else to say other than to continue your current studies. Nathera, you will continue your study of the native flora of Quel’Thalas. Tyniarrel, perhaps if you spent more time studying your herbs, rather than imbibing their extracts, I could give you something more useful to do; I’ve no time to be concerned with you so do what you will.” Tyniarrel shrugged in response, seemingly unconcerned. His demeanour had garnered him the acceptance into the youth culture of Eversong, where he fraternised with the sons and daughters of Silvermoon’s finest, so he had little else to do and pursued herbalism out of simple curiosity; he had a fine working mind, capable of more, but his priorities were different from his peers. “Eventide, your review of the literature on virinaissance is not trivial.”  
“Yes, high botanist.” Tenemire was not sure how to respond. Freywinn had been given the important task of finding some way, any way, to revitalise Quel’Thalas’ ecosystem after the war. Much had been accomplished, but there were still many imbalances in the native wildlife and then there was the dread “scar,” that had eluded the botanists’ and mages’ of various other schools attempts to erase its constant dark mementoes of the past. However lately he had been pushing that responsibility onto Tenemire. It was hoped that in some tome somewhere, perhaps even a synergised magic derived from multiple sources, existed the knowledge that could be used to speed recovery. The elves of Quel’Thalas had long cultivated the natural beauty of their ancestral home and valued it for its history and grandeur. To restore northern Lordaeron to its past state of natural harmony was necessary for the elves to feel restored again themselves. Their pride and masterful intellect would not allow for a future of diminished glory. So Tenemire began his search at the origins of plant life itself. Perhaps the primordial energies could be mimicked with the arcane to bring the dead scar back to life.  
“You are dismissed,” Freywinn said. His mind seemed to lie elsewhere.  
“High botanist,” Nathera said quickly, Freywinn raised his eyes, “there are whispers in Silvermoon, among the elders. There seems to be a heightened energy. I can not tell if this is good.”  
“Our scryers have sensed… disturbances. Some think they could be signs of attempted communication with our brethren elsewhere.” Tenemire shivered. Kael’Thas, he thought. That name brought to any high elf a sense of solemn respect. What great things could be coming if he were to re-establish communication? “That is all you ought to know for now. I must now be left undisturbed.” The high botanist’s students stood, their minds still wandering with possibilities, before they gathered themselves and walked slowly back down. The stasis of Eversong Woods, the slow moving sun, the distant call of a dragonhawk, contrasted sharply with the anticipation of the young elves.  
“Could it be him?” said Nathera  
“Who?” replied Tyniarrel.  
“Kael’Thas!”  
“That seems very unlikely.”  
“What else could Freywinn have meant?”  
“A message? What matter does it make? Kael’Thas is not coming back. The sooner everyone realises that the better. We need to learn how to get on without him.”  
“By sitting around all day drinking with a bunch of other nihilists?” Said Tenemire. “We better hope something happens soon. People seem to be content with only half a city; we’ve no clear direction.”  
“And what were you doing this morning?”  
“Studying.”  
“Mhm. Well I’ll be off. To go drinking with the other nihilists.” Tyniarrel disliked conversation outside the mundane gossip heard at Saltheril’s gatherings. There seemed to be more and more lately who dismissed conversation, and even thought, of any depth. The events of their past were indeed convincing; that great ideas lead to great catastrophe. Tyniarrel sauntered off through the sun-spattered wood, back towards Silvermoon.  
“Where are you going, Ten?” asked Nathera.  
“Home. So I can make myself look less dreadful.”  
“What? You look fine.”  
Tenemire scoffed, “Please. I can’t stand myself right now. And I hate seeing Freywinn like this; he makes me feel like such a troll.”  
“I still don’t understand how you find him attractive.”  
“I don’t swoon over him. It’s just that he’s slightly older, clearly brilliant, effortlessly attractive, and never seems to be affected by such little matters as we are.”  
“His lack of a personality is not something to be admired I don’t think. He seems more off than usual.”  
“What do you mean?”  
“You didn’t notice him talking to himself.”  
“I do that all the time.”  
“Well, maybe you’re not the best example.” They laughed. “Don’t be so hard on yourself; we’re all having a difficult time keeping things together. Remember the Sunwell, my friend.”  
“Anar’alah.”  
Tenemire walked slowly back to his house, enjoying the remainder of the morning; he rarely saw mornings anymore. The sun was warm. Why could he not shake this apprehension? The times were few when he did not feel the gnawing in his mind, as if his attention were desperately being called for, but for what he could not find, no matter how he meditated. If it was not this trepidation, it was the darkness, calling his spirit down into the earth, taking all his energy to pull it back up. It was by grace that he took a few moments solace in the eternal peace of the forest. But sadly for all his race, that would not be enough.  
Walking back into his house, he paid respect to his shrine, a stylised rendering of the Cathedral of Light in Stormwind, blessed there with an incantation of light. What bothered him greatly, though it was a thought that he could never directly acknowledge, he would now allow himself, was that his devotion to the light was not enough either. The arcane was so cerebral, it was order brought into the universe, how could the weak physical vessels of their spirits be so dependent on it? Knowledge of the nature of greater things is what Tenemire truly hungered for, and its absence from him, his mind’s inability to grasp all perturbed him.  
His house was a single room, but decently sized. It was roughly circular and vaulted in the usual elven fashion. One side held his small, one-person bed, but opulently ornamented. Near the bed was a large, curtained window. Nearby was a washing basin and mirror for shaving, and bottles of tinctures, a wardrobe too. Much of the room was taken up by the imposing desk covered in tomes and artefacts of magical nature. The high walls held shelves covered in yet more books, jars of specimens, and his collection of exotic specimens held in suspended animation inside glass cloches. Lastly there was a small settee and table and range. The centre of the room was covered by a heavy, dark, ornamented rug. From the keystone at the centre of the ceiling was suspended a modest chandelier that provided a dim, diffuse light that reflected off the polished white walls during the dark hours. The arched doorway had suspended from it long diaphanous curtains that flowed in and out with the breeze. The décor was dark in palette. Candlesticks and torches were placed and enchanted to alight come dusk. The doorway opened onto a small terrace with a table and chairs. In its original design, the window and doorway were to be open, however since the invasion they were both closed for fear of the lingering undead. Around his house he had planted many specimens of the local flora, some for study, some for home use. All was carefully chosen and lovingly cared for, though his home knew few visitors.  
He finished what he had neglected in the morning. He washed his face properly, shaved, all except for a thin moustache and accompanying column of trimmed hair on the chin, applied some powder, brushed his hair and applied scented oil to smooth, and even sprayed a small amount of perfume, as was his custom even when not expecting anyone. He looked at his clear grey eyes in the mirror and smiled before allowing himself to leave. He sat at his desk and stopped. Realising he lacked any specific direction to take. He had done an overview of many different types of magic and how they could be used to revive the plant life in the dead scar. He had even looked at druidic magic as a last resort. Another thought irked him, that he very well could continue another project he had begun. He thought collecting samples from the field and analysing them to create a crude representation of the distribution of species ranging in proximity to the scar. Normally he would like to be able to walk around the forest and call it work, but he was tired. It was either sitting at the desk doing nothing or gathering himself and going outside.  
The walk through the Ruins from Sunstrider Isle was relatively short. In an effort to find a moment of peace before taking his samplings, he thought to pay the beach a short visit. The afternoon sun was hitting the water at the Tranquil Shore, and true to its name, in between wave-breaks there was almost silence. Far in the distance through the sea spray, along the sandbars he saw the primitive dwellings of some murlocs, usually peaceful creatures, but agitated since the invasion. He looked out over the ocean and thought how his ancestors millennia ago sought a new beginning from distant shores, to this place, already nearly destroyed. When would the elves run out of chances? It was little wonder why so many of his kind had succumbed to a sort of mental stasis. Whether by luck (good or bad), good breeding, or a cultivated intelligence, Tenemire thought he could not just accept meaninglessness, even if he wanted to, even if doing so were his only option saving him from death. Recently he had been even more unpopular than usual. His peers were passionate about having no passion, and their hostility was awakened when he appeared to point out the inconsistencies, the unsustainability, the folly of their philosophy. He was a good observer, a true sceptic, never accepting a reality until it could be reasoned. It was his faith in the power of intelligent reason that angered the others, though they, nor he, knew that that was the real reason. Nevertheless, observation is elementary. As for solution, he was young and naïf, and a blind faith to the Holy Light was no longer satisfactory, in practise nor in stimulation. He took a difficult stance, and this was the key to his separation: that the Holy Light’s silence was not a deficit in it, but in him. His mistake however, was in the severe judgment, the scrupulosity that tore him down from the inside night after night. To expect a lifetime’s wisdom so early in life! What else did he think he’d have left to learn? He had few true allies in this, perhaps none, so some of the severity was a consequence of the pressure one puts upon oneself when they believe themselves the only one capable of some important task. In addition to this was his pride again, a disdain for the “group members,” that even if he were somehow mistaken, he had taken a different path, a harder one. He could weather more, sacrifice more, and ultimately survive longer.  
From his musings on the silent shore, he brought his mind back to the external world. Now sufficiently motivated, he made his way to the dead scar, herbalist’s satchel on shoulder. It was true, he’d prefer to sit at his desk, cup of tea beside, and read about plants, rather than go hunting for them. He also disliked such crude measurement methods. But the forest’s natural beauty never lost its mystery to him. The beauty gave him hope. If somehow he could contribute, to whatever degree, to the restoration of the land to its true form, he could not be idle. He disliked however getting too close to the scar itself; another of its mysteries was its attractive nature to the undead, whose members still walked through it, though rarely left its borders. They were an aggressive bunch, however only a shadowy remainder of what had once been. At this point, they were mostly a nuisance. It was the devastation of Silvermoon that bothered him, and the elves in general the most. About half of the city had been thoroughly cleaned up, but those who resided there were mostly living in ruined buildings or temporary shelters. Nobody knew what to do.  
He spent some hours taking measurements, trying to hypothesise something, before deciding to return. He disliked walking through the Ruins too late. It had become a gathering place for the despondent who had lost their homes. It was a stark reminder of the state the elves found themselves in. Upon returning home in the early evening, he discovered a note on his door. It was an invitation and pass to one of Lord Saltheril’s parties, two evenings away. He smirked. They had tried to invite him once before long ago. His aloofness came as a slight to Lord Saltheril and no further hands were extended. Why the difference? Attached to the invitation was a letter from Nathera: “Tyniarrel is making me go to this; he says it is going to be one of the biggest yet. I won’t know many there, and those I do I probably won’t like much! Won’t you please come? We can stand together and talk about everyone else.” She was the closest friend he had and he had made fond memories of the time they spent together. For some reason, she took a liking to him, and he knew at times he was not the most sociable person. Simple arithmetic tells you that any relationship must be balanced, and he knew he was obligated to go, if anything as payback to Nathera, and she seemed to be excited. “One of the biggest yet.” He thought of that. What is the occasion? A sort of “party before the end of the world” scenario? He wouldn’t admit it, but it had been a long time since any reckless fun, so part of him was rather excited. He hadn’t worn his favourite outfit in a long time. Having awaken so early that morning, he found that he was actually tired at a decent hour. After having a cup of earthroot tea, reading a few pages, and saying an evening prayer, he laid himself down to sleep. The moonlight shone down, and all was peaceful in his world.


End file.
